


Road Runner

by Wildish_Gambino



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Crazy, Cute Kids, Drug Addiction, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Italian Mafia, M/M, Minor Violence, Musicians, Mutual Pining, On the Run, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Sex, Sort of? - Freeform, Steve Rogers Feels, Theft, Underage Drinking, robbers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14079081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildish_Gambino/pseuds/Wildish_Gambino
Summary: "Running. I've always been good at running. It came naturally to me. Like blinking. Some would say like breathing, but i can't breathe right now. I really wish i could breathe right now. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. I can't breathe. "orSteve Rogers, a drug addict, meets Bucky, an adrenaline addict, at a party. The two start a band, "kidnap" a child, and go on a series of bank robberies to kick start their music career.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have a very loose idea of how this can go so lets hope it goes well.

In the dead of night, the only sound I can hear is the sound of my own heavy footsteps crashing down on the pavement. That's not a good thing. I know they're coming, even if they do move silently. I know i can't stand this much longer. My heart was a fragile thing, already trying to give out, trying to crawl it's way out of my chest. My eyes could not see well in the dark and the burning from my lungs had already started to work its way up my throat, choking me. But that was mainly the fear. 

Despite my insides collapsing, my limbs stayed in motion. Running. I've always been good at running. It came naturally to me, like blinking. Some would say like breathing, but i'm finding it hard to breathe right now.

I really wish I could breathe right now. 

Just breathe. 

Just breathe. 

Just breathe. 

I can't breathe.


	2. A couple of months earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear it's gonna get action-y soon, but proper backstory is needed! Chapter three is when the fun begins. (Also, this Peter is Peter Quill aka Starlord, not Peter Parker)

I wake up with a crick in my neck and an ant biting my face. The intense need to continue sleeping washes over me, but my better judgement guides me elsewhere. The harsh sun shines down on my eyes as i fight to open them. When i finally do, the burn doesn't seem worth it. I'm in a parking lot, and fortunately, like the grey goose bottle in my hand, it's empty. With a groan, i flick the ant off of my cheek and attempt to lift my decaying body off of the pavement. I see no road, nor cars, nor any sign of human life. There's a pain in my side, my shirt is on backwards, and I'm missing a shoe. I'm grateful to not remember how i wound up here.

  
With no other choice beside starvation, i start to walk the expanse of the seemingly endless parking lot. I should probably feel bad, knowing that it's probably been a few days since I've been home. Aunt Peggy is probably worried and Peter is going to be pissed. I should've called them days ago, to let them know i'm safe, that i'm alive, that i didn't overdose in someone's basement. But guilt won't fix anything. What's done is done. I'll call them soon.

  
It isn't until ten minutes pass that I see a safe haven: A Dollar General. The cool breeze hits me as soon as the doors slide open and nothing could've felt better against my sun burnt skin. I can't call Peggy right now. She's at work, and i know she'd start crying as soon as she heard my voice. So i whip out my phone and dial Peter instead. It rings once before he answers.  
"Where the hell have you been, Steve." His usual cheerful voice was gone, seething anger taking it's place.  
"I'm at the store. Do you guys need anything?"  
"Steve!"  
I say nothing. He sighs.  
"Are we just not gonna talk about this?"  
I'd like to say "no", but "no" barely works the first few times, certainly not the tenth. So i settle with, "Later." He seems content with the answer and replies, "Get cereal" before hanging up.  
I push the phone into my back pocket and swap it out with a crumpled ball of three dollar bills. Not enough money for shoes and cereal. So when i make my way over to the shoe isle, i opt for a pair of cheap flip flops, rip off the tags, and place them on my feet. It's not stealing if i come back and pay for them later.

  
Before i even reach the cereal isle, i know by the sound of popped bubblegum that it is being occupied. Sure enough, when i turn the corner, I'm met with the back of someone's head. I pass behind the stranger as they continue to survey a box of Lucky Charms.

  
He was taller and broader than me, though that was not a difficult feat, with dark tangled hair coming down to his shoulder blades. I felt his eyes on me as i passed. I bit my tongue, I wasn't looking for a fight. After a brief skim of the selection, i grab Cheerios. I hear the stranger's bubblegum pop once more and then a deep chuckle. I glance at him to find him already looking back. The stranger dips his hands in his coat pockets and turns his full body to face me. His grin grows wider by the second. I try my best not to cower under his height, but my body can barely stand on it's on without copious amounts of work. I didn't have that much energy to spare. Out of annoyance and exhaustion, I muster up one word. "What?"

  
This draws another laugh from the stranger. He steps closer. I almost step back. Then, with a slight nod of his head, he drawls, "You look like shit."  
His audacity was surprising, to say the least. And before I could find the strength to knock him across the jaw, I walk away.

  
\------------------

  
Peggy's waiting for me when i get home. It pains me to see her this way, tired, frail, hair growing grayer. But she still wakes up for work every morning. She still takes care of Peter and me the best she can. She sits at the dinner table, face in her hands, eyes already watering.

  
"A week." She says. It takes too long to process what that means. Her chair scrapes against the hardwood as she stands abruptly. Her voice wavers fiercely.  
"A week, Steven. Seven days. Seven days with no knowledge of where you were, no message, no phone call, no idea if you were alive or not. Now i know you know I don't like to see you when you take those things, but i'd much rather have you in your room where i can get to you, than in a ditch somewhere choking on your own vomit. "

  
I do not meet her eyes. I know if i do, i'd break down as well. Instead, i stare down at my feet like a child, shifting back and forth on my toes, trying to keep it together. I hear her sniffle and then sit back down. "Peter's waiting for you", she says. "He's been worried sick." That's code for "leave me be", so i do.

  
I push open Peter's door to find him on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tear tracks line the side of his cheeks. "It's the longest you've been gone", he says. He sits up, but doesn't face me. "I really thought you were dead this time." I open my mouth, to say something, an apology, an excuse, anything, but he just shakes his head before i get out the first syllable. The tears start up again, and Peter hiccups through his words. "I hate it when you do this! You always apologize but you always do it again, Steve! Why can't you just be happy with us? Without the drugs! Without the alcohol!" He jolts up from his bed and pushes me back. "Why!" Peter is only seventeen, but already a mass of muscle and at least a head taller than me. But somehow, he looks so small in light of everything. With tears running down his face and hurt so evident in his eyes. He's only a child. A child shouldn't go through this. Without a word, i pull him to my chest. Instantly, his head falls onto my shoulder and he begins weeps. I squeeze the boy as hard as my limbs allow, and he squeezes back. Through broken cries, he whimpers out something softly. "Why aren't we enough for you?" I pretend not to hear it.


	3. Gimme drugs, gimme drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT BEGINS

I was half way through buttoning my work shirt when Peter barged into my room. The door hit the wall so hard, I half expected to see a hole where the knob had been. It was only my third day home.  
"I want to start a band", Peter says finally. The unexpected statement hangs in the air as my hands falter against my shirt. I had played drums in high school. For the most part, I did well at it. My band director had always praised me profusely after each performance, applauding my rhythm and quick hands. It brought a smile to Peggy's face, knowing that i was involved in something. She had always tried desperately to make me feel normal. She'd take me out for ice cream when I would get C's, bring me to ballgames as a father would. She'd even allow drugs into her home. Her enablement came from love. But it was still enablement. In her defense, I wouldn't know what to do either. I came to her the summer of my fifth birthday, a fresh foster child after my grandmother's passing. I guess no one explained to her the special brand of crazy I was born out of. At least she holds a special title now. Peggy Carter: The first woman in the world to see a five year old go through withdrawal. At first, she thought it was a fever, but it had gotten so bad, too bad. The fever wouldn't break and tremors rocked my already shivering body. So she called a neighbor, who called a neighbor, who called a neighbor who finally explain what it was, and what she had to do. And it continued this way until i was old enough to buy drugs myself, old enough to wonder outside of the yard. It's a miracle my body still functioned. 

Peter came not long after. I was eight to his six. He'd always had a thing for music, but surprisingly, only 80's rock and classic pop tunes. As children, he'd show me his collection of cassette tapes, each stolen from a different foster home he'd been in and say "My daddy used to listen to these when he was here." I remember once, i had asked where he went. Peter broke out into a grin and replied "Space. My daddy's a space man." I never asked again. Even now, his love for music stuck with him. He had taken up guitar lessons has soon as his hands were big enough to reach across the fret board and could also play bass well, if not better. What I'm trying to say is, it would make sense for Peter to want to start a band. But I never thought he'd rope me into his hyperactive love for tunes. 

Life had taught me that the best response is silence. So i silently close the door in his face and continue dressing myself. When he bursts in again, I curse myself for not locking the door. Peter rolls his eyes and leans against the door way. "I'm serious. I'm starting a band and I want you to be in it."  
"Why me?", I groan.  
"One, because you're awesome at drums, and two, because this'll give us a chance to spend some quality time together! Yunno, bro time! And give you something other to do than go on week long benders."  
I don't reply, but my glare says a thousand words. Most of them colorful.  
"There's another guy I'm asking to join. We're meeting at a party tonight. You're coming."  
When he leaves, i make sure to lock the door. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

It's far too hot for it to be March, yet far too windy for it not to be. My work uniform, consisting of the average rent-a-cop get up, did nothing to fight of the sun nor work against the breeze. And i didn't know whether the lack of trees in my neighborhood was helping or hurting. We didn't live in the slums, but it certainly wasn't Manhattan. South side was run down, streets cracked and lined with crack heads but people weren't getting shot and/or robbed left and right so we counted that as a plus. The bank I worked at wasn't too far from here, but considering the sweltering heat, the distance seemed greater. Times like these, I regret having my licence suspended.

I hear Clint before I see him. With his loud mouth, and equally loud speakers hooked up in the trunk of his car, the man could never be a spy. Sure enough, Clint's golden brown El Camino slowed to a stop next to me. The excitement on his face is endearing.  
"What's up man! Hop in!"  
And I do.  
"You heading to work?"  
I nod.  
"Gotcha."  
We ride in silence for a few minutes. It is not comfortable nor uncomfortable really, but I could tell by the stutter of his breathe it was killing him. Finally, he sighs. "Where have you been, Steve?"  
I run a hand through my hair. "To be honest, I don't even remember."  
"Are you serious Steve? Man, I know Peggy's pissed at me. Last time i sell you Xanax."  
It was a weird relationship to have with your dealer, this awkward sort-of-friendship. Clint was only a year older than me, but he had always watched out for me as if he were my big brother. It was just his nature. He was the caring type. His heart made up for his lack of good judgement.  
"Come on, Steve. You haven't been this quiet since that time you got caught with molly taped to your junk. Why aren't you talking to me? Of all people?"  
I keep up my quiet act for the rest of the ride. It's best i keep my mouth shut for now. It's hard to explain yourself when you don't even know what's going on. The days passed in a blur. And I was floating in open air while the rest of the world remained grounded. My family and friends, they watch me, expressionless, as i drift further into space. And i'm too high to even wonder where my gravity has gone. Now my body floats among the stars. I know no motion. I can't run in space. There's nothing here to run from. 

Clint still smiles at me before he pulls off, because it's the Clint thing to do. I can't remember if I smile back before walking into the crisp, cool, building. After the third robbery of the year, Carver's Federal had finally realized maybe security was needed. But being that most citizens were either A) scared of getting shot or B) the ones shooting, the application pool was merely a puddle. I was lucky enough (note the sarcasm) to be selected as a guardsmen with little to no police experience besides being arrested. One day, I should point out the flaws in their application process. Most days, including today, I work along side Brock Rumlow, a gritty, hot-headed, unfortunately attractive man who makes my skin crawl whenever he so much as looks my way. This quickly became a problem, because Brock was a starer, and a chatty one. I'd watch with disgust as he blatantly watched the women that walked in day to day, commenting on their skirts, or chests, or what he'd like to do to them. I'd bite my tongue each time, but each time it grows harder to do so. 

Today, Brock seems to be in a particularly chatty mood, because thirty minutes into my shift, he saunters over to me with his trademark shark grin.  
"Well, you certainly look like you had a fun weekend." I remain quiet, hoping he'd get the message,that i didn't want to engage with him in any sort of way. But he continues. "Aww, you're not talking to me today, Stevie." My fists clenched at my sides. He mock sighs. "Oh well. That's okay. You can just listen. Cause I've been dying to tell someone about this brat the government dumped me with last week."  
He goes on to tell me he's gotten a foster child and two things cross my mind. One, who in their right mind would give Rumlow a child, and two, I'll have to remind myself to pray for said child later on.  
"The kid's only like two, but he's always making a mess."  
"That's what kids do Brock." He ignores me.  
"He can barely speak and when he does, it's like he's speaking Spanish or something." He scoffs. "I told them to send me a cool one."

At this point, I've checked out. I humor Brock with absent nods of my head and the occasional "mmhm". He seems pleased with it. He doesn't notice I'm staring at the clock, urging six o clock to come.

\----------------------------------------------------------

When I clock out, Clint is waiting on me.  
"Peter sent me", he says. "To make sure you don't miss the party."  
I groan into my hands. "I don't even have a change of clothes. I can't go to a house party looking like a cop."  
"Okay, uh, you can keep the cargo pants on. Just take off the shirt and wear the tank top you have under it. It'll make you look like a 90's bad boy."  
Clint giggles as my face gets hot. He knows I hate showing skin. I had too much bone and not enough meat. There was nothing there to show. Still, i undress and step out of the car without hesitation when we arrive to the party. The music could be heard from the lawn, a pop song with heavy base, making the ground tremble. A few people occupy the front lawn, red solo cups in hand, already heinously drunk. I stifle a laugh. 

Once inside the house, Clint all but ditches me. I hear him mutter "Natasha" as he disappears into the crowd. The smell of sweat was present but was greatly overpowered by the smell of booze and probably marijuana. I will myself walk through the crowd, and find Peter sitting on the arm of a couch, sipping a grape soda. A person I didn't recognize lyed draped across his lap, seemingly napping despite the noise. When he sees me, his face lights up. He screams "You made it!", as if he didn't force me to come. Peter waves me over, pointing to the chair next to him. I take a seat in it. Then, he jostles the person in his lap. They wake with a start, shooting up, nearly knocking Peter in the face. But he just laughs.  
"Is this the band member you were talking about?" I ask, motioning towards the blond boy trying to keep his eyes open. He shakes his head, and replies "Nah, that's just Rocket. He's a sleepy drunk."  
Suddenly, there's a distant crash, followed by a few shouts and then an eruption of drunken cheers. He points towards the noise. "That's the band member."

To our left, a crowd of people surround a single man currently doing a one handed hand stand on the dining room table. He uses his other hand to hold a beer bottle upside down, into his mouth. After a few gulps, he throws the bottle aside. The crowd only cheers when it breaks against the wall. The man flips off the table, promptly landing on his butt on the ground but he doesn't seem bothered by it. Peter shouts to him, "Hey, Bucky!" and then he's stumbling over to us. 

I don't recognize his face instantly, but i'm guessing he does. Because as soon as he makes eye contact with me, he smirks.  
"Bucky, this is Steve. Steve, this is Bucky." Bucky nods in affirmation. "What's up". It rolls of his tongue, almost like a purr, but i'm too busy watching a drop of beer run down the side of his chin. His hair looks less greasy now, but it still remains a tangled mass. The shirt he's wearing compliments his body type nicely, stretching across his chest and biceps, barely coming down to waist, exposing only a sliver of skin above his jeans. Two years ago, I would've layed down all my best lines and climb him like a tree. But things are different now. But I can still admire the look in his steal blue eyes while he starts to talk again. 

"Hope I didn't offend you the other day", and I wave a hand at that. "My feelings aren't hurt".  
"yeah!", Peter chimes in. "Steve doesn't have any." Bucky smirks, leaning into my space. "Is that so?" I throw him a bone, giving him a slight smirk in return. An invitation. For what, i don't know. "Do you want a drink?", he asks, stepping even closer. I call his bluff, getting closer as well. "Sure. Whatever you got." Peter clears his voice.  
"Well, uh, I'll be over there. You two don't tear each other's clothes off."

I'm five drinks in when things start to get fuzzy. Somehow, Bucky's gotten even closer, his arm around my waist as he sway together in the kitchen of some poor soul's house. His hand tentatively slips underneath my shirt. I gasp, his hands freezing against my warm stomach. Too drunk to care, I chug another cup of punch.  
I lose count of my drinks when I find myself in Bucky's lap, facing him. I watch his face as he giggles.The sound is sweet. He's just as drunk as me. I grind a little in his lap and he hums at the feeling. Next, I lean down and push his face into my neck. He gets the message quickly, nipping at the spot then licking it like a kitten. I feel him grin against me as my breathe hitches. I move my hips more. 

This is not my first rodeo. And Bucky is not the first boy I have tried to bed. He like all the others, is a star. Bright, and ever glowing. I am the night that surrounds him. I caress the light but never dwell in it. And he, like all the others, can never dwell in my darkness, no matter how much they may like the touch. 

I grind down harder in his lap. He's like all the others. He gasps against my neck. He's like all the others. I cherish the sound. He's like all the others. His hands roam my body, unfamiliar but familiar. The same but different. I can tell by the scratch of his dull nails that he likes the way i gasp so i do it more, into his ear. I haven't forgot we're in a room full of people. I just fail to care. 

As he slips his hand down the front of my pants, I will myself to remember not to get too lost in the eyes of this one. Like all the others, he will disappoint me.


	4. Take my Medicine

We didn't go much further that night, which was probably for the best. Peter had come back in, making an effort to look at anything but me grinding in Bucky's lap, and said that Clint was taking us home. Sure, I was frustrated, but it was nothing my left hand couldn't fix. Bucky, on the other hand, seemed a bit more disappointed, dragging his hand out of my pants as slow as humanly possible. Seconds later, he leans in, attempting to plant a kiss to my lips. I turn my head. The kiss lands on my cheek. I shouldn't care about something as trivial, as insignificant as a peck to the lips. But it was on a level of intimacy I didn't allow myself to be on. The body was a completely different ballgame. The body was like a cup. You can hold it, move it, drink from it. Another person's body would be like the water, filling up that cup for a while only to dissipate and then get replaced when it was time for another drink. Kissing on the lips, would be like putting flowers into the cup, making it into a vase, making it something to be treasured. There is nothing special about a cup. But a vase? People love a good vase. 

 

A look of confusion crosses Bucky's face for a split second, then it is quickly replaced with a smile. He waves goodbye to me as I follow Peter out. I don't wave back. In five minutes, he'll lose the memory of me ever being here. My spot on his lap will be kept warm by another drunk soul looking for a quick hook-up. I am hardly bothered by it. 

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------ 

 

The first band meeting occurs two days later. I'm in Peter's room, setting up the borrowed drum set when Bucky arrives, guitar case strapped to his back. Peter is to my left trying to set up a mic stand. He merely nods his head at Bucky, too frustrated with the task to properly greet. He drops the case on the bed and gets to work making himself comfortable. He slips off his jacket and throws it in a corner, then pulls his hair back with an elastic. I don't mean to watch him so intently, but he makes it so easy to slip away. When he notices my eyes on him, I'm met with a slight frown. The brunette turns his full attention on me and thus the staring contest begins. My eyes go to rake his body while his seems to stick to my face, neither of us willing to back down. I get the feeling he's sizing me up, misinterpreting my lingering eye, so i look away with an eye roll. The huff he lets out is almost laughable. 

 

I learn a few new things within the day. One, that Peter is horrible at timing. Two, I'm a lot better at the drums than i expected to be. And three, Bucky had the voice of a blues singer. It was sad, and raspy, and damn gorgeous. I wanted to keep that sound with me, bottle it up and keep it in my pocket. I didn't necessarily want to keep Bucky, no. But his voice sure did work wonders on me. 

 

Two weeks go by. Two weeks of band practice, me on drums, Peter on bass, and Bucky on guitar and vocals. Two weeks of Bucky and I barely speaking to each other, but by my own choice. I hoped there were no hard feelings. Two weeks of getting back into my routine of shooting up, going to work, getting high, then sleeping. 

 

By the sixth week, we'd established a fair amount of doable song covers and a recognizable sound. All we needed was a band name. 

"Euphoric Division", Peter shouts out as we spit ball names. 

"Erotica" Bucky counters. They go back and forth. 

"Rival Boys" 

"Scrap Metal" 

"Baby Danish" 

"El Suave" 

"Daddy Danish." 

"What's up with you and danishes?" 

"What? Do you not like danishes?" 

"I never said that." 

Finally, I chime in. 

"PBS." 

They stare at me in confusion and slight shock. "Like the kids' channel?" Peter suggests. I suddenly feel the need to defend myself. "No, cause its like...the first letters..of our...names." Bucky grins as i struggle to string words together. 

"Okay, I see what you're getting at", he says. "So what about...Stuckers? Or QRB?" 

Peter shrugs, "I like QRB". Bucky grins, "Alright then. QRB." 

 

And with that, band practice ended. Peter was quick to rush out, mumbling something about meeting Clint up the street. This left me and Bucky to our own devices as we packed up our instruments. We rarely talked to one another. Not on a personal level, at least. We said what was necessary during practice, that was it, I figured it was because of the party. I had left him with a bad case of blue balls and i know for a fact that that kind of thing is never fun to deal with. But i didn't think he'd take it personal. In my opinion, he didn't seem like a very emotional guy. Bucky was rough around the edges. He'd joke, and laugh, and charm the pants off of anyone (Peggy had certainly taken a liking to him), but there was something that still seemed closed off. His mock openness what almost like seeing a mirage. He can seem so genuine, but I can tell by the distance in his eyes that he wasn't really there. It was truly beautiful to watch. The way his boyish charm and charisma worked wonders. The way his smile made people melt, unbeknownst to the untrained eye just how plastic that smile was. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Our first gig took place at a dive bar on South side. Bucky's friend Thor, the owner of the bar, had hooked us up a thirty minute time slot. It wasn't much, but it was certainly enough for us. Bucky met us down the street from the bar so that the three of us could walk in together. Per usual, this Bucky, sober Bucky, was a calming agent, almost stoic, a needed contrast to Peter, who looked about five seconds away from pissing his pants in excitement. "Oh my god, guys this is happening!"   
He walked next to me with a certain bounce in his step that you wouldn't expect to be rare, but certainly was. A grin never left his face. It brought me a strange type of joy to see Peter this way, glowing, free of stress. He was truly on top of the world. 

And when the door of the bar slammed shut behind us, i watched Peter fold in on himself like a deflating balloon. Apparently, Bucky's friend Thor was not a man, but a giant. He was three times my height, ten times my muscle mass, had a head full of hair just like Bucky, yet somehow more luxurious, and heading straight for us with the same goad as a hyped up golden retriever. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Peter hunker down into his fighting stance, fist balled. I grab his wrist and pull him behind me. "Woah there!" I joke. Thor looks down, all the way down, at me with a confused, yet kind smile. "You should know better than to run up on a South sider like that." Thor lets out a booming laugh, and claps Bucky on the shoulder. The audible SMACK leaves me hurting by association. "My apologies, friend", he says to me. "I am still somewhat unaware of some of your American customs and whatnot." Bucky smiles up at the blonde man.   
"How've you been, man?"   
"Ah! I've been well, James! I hope the same for you."  
"You know it, big guy. Now, where should we set up."  
"Ah yes. This way!" 

Five minutes before we start, I start to get cold feet. The crowd was larger than anticipated, a full house overflowing the bar. Mostly college age kids, with the occasional middle ager, or high schooler with a really good fake ID. Peter was busy tuning his bass, Bucky was trying and failing to tie his hair back neatly, and since my drum set was set up on stage, i was left with nothing else to do but wait.   
"Are you nervous?" Bucky says to me? There's a hair tie between his teeth as he struggles to brush his hair back with his hands. I sit next to him against the wall.   
"A little, but not really. " He doesn't look at me when he asks, "Are you high?". I laugh an almost real laugh and mumble out a "maybe". He smirks. Peter joins us a moment later, plopping down next to me to watch Bucky fight with his hair. "You've been doing this for fifteen minutes Bucky. It doesn't have to be neat. Chicks dig the bad boys anyways!" With a defeated sigh, he throws it up and secures it loosely. Peter claps his hands, "Now that's one hot motherfucker!" I laugh at him and stand once more. "You guys ready?" The responses I get are head nods, but confident head nods. Thor's on the stage now, and when he calls out "QRB", the crowd cheers. It's time. Bucky goes first, grabbing his guitar and trotting out onto the stage. The girls go wild, high pitched squeals filling the room, trumping put all other sounds. Then Peter, who waves a little when the girls give him an equal reaction. And then i go, met with slightly less enthused cheers but cheers nonetheless. We've practiced, we've worked, we're ready for this. With a deep breath, i start the count. "1, 2, 3, 4." 

Peter starts out first, with his heavy bass line. The crowd goes quiet, eager to listen. I start in quietly, leaving room for Bucky's voice. When he starts to sing the first verse, i could see everyone in the crowd visibly swoon. 

'Here to take my medicine, take my medicine. Treat you like a gentleman. Give me that adrenaline, that adrenaline. Think I'm gonna stick with it.' 

Bucky strums his guitar as he sings. He makes it look effortless. The women, they don't stand a chance. The men either. Every eye in the audience is locked on him, as it should be. Bucky is now their sun. They revolve around him. 

'I had a few, got drunk on you, and now I'm wasted. And when i sleep, I'm gonna dream of how you...'

They go wild when the chorus sets in. It's heavy rock, the type of music you can't help but move to. And that paired with Bucky's raspy voice proved to be a match made in heaven.

'If you go out tonight, im going out cause I know you're persuasive! You've got that salt and I got me an appetite! Now i can taste it! You get me dizzy, oh you get me dizzy, oh. Na na na na na! You get me dizzy! Oh, you get me dizzy, oh!'

Bucky seemed to be enjoying the crowd's puppet master. When he jumped, they jumped. When he screamed, they screamed. When he dropped to the floor, sweat soaked and gyrating, they all but dropped their pants. 

'I feel like running through my bones, fingers to my toes, feel it running down my bones. The boys and the girls are in. I mess around with him, and i'm okay with it.' 

'I'm coming down, I figure out I kinda like it. And when i sleep, i'm gonna dream of how you..." 

He was sex on legs right now. The poster boy for everything you wouldn't take home to your mother. Right now, I'm meeting a new Bucky, another one of his personas I haven't been formally introduced to. He's a bad boy, good at things he shouldn't be good at. But i doubt anyone's complaining. He could give a priest a hard on with just an eye roll. 

When the set ended, back stage was flooded with suitors, most of which were for Bucky. He was bombarded with phone numbers in every form; on paper, on napkins, on bras. Peter got a few as well, and he blushed when I jabbed him in the side lightly. I got none. Because that's how life works for me. When the hoard finally left, we thanked Thor and snuck out the back door. In his hands, Bucky held several beer bottles. One by one, he emptied them, as if they held nothing but water. "Tonight...s..wa...fun." He slurs. Peter rolls his eyes at him. "You're definitely not driving home tonight. Steve, okay if he bunks with you?" I shrug. Bucky stumbles, then drops to his knees. "But wait!" He screams. "I want...I..gum. Steve, I want bubblegum Steve." To tired to care, or comment, I nod over to the convenient store one shop down. Bucky instantly perks and scrambles to the florescent lights. "I'll meet you at home?" Peter says. And i nod. Once he goes, i follow behind Bucky. 

He didn't make it far past the doors before tripping over his own feet. The clerk, a young man, probably just as tired as us at one in the morning, pays him no mind, even when Bucky shouts at him from his spot on the ground. "Hey man! Got any hubba bubba!" I lean against the counter and watch the encounter. When the clerk struggles to find words, Bucky grows annoyed. "Come on Man! I want gum!" He fights his way back up. He falls down again, then works his way up once more. I could smell the alcohol on him. He must've had more than a few drinks at the bar as well. The clerk still had yet to say anything. and Bucky bangs his head on the counter. Then, the unexpected happens. 

Bucky pulls out a gun. 

The clerk's hands instantly fly up. "Bucky! What the hell man!" I shout at him. His head lazily falls to the side to look at me. "Gum, Steve." He turns back to the clerk. "Gum!"

Finally, the clerk shouts "Aisle two!" and the gun clatters to the ground. The clerk and I both flinch. Bucky just makes his way to the aisle. With a pleased look, he returns, a piece of gum already in his mouth. Still stunned, I shift into "I'm not going back to Jail" mode. I throw a few dollars on the counter, grab the gun, and pull Bucky out of the store as quickly as I can. I try to run, but Bucky isn't cooperating. Instead, he whines. "I don't wanna run, Steve. I'm tired." 

Eventually, we make our way into an alleyway. "What the hell was that?!" I'm close to hyperventilating. But somehow, Bucky manages to look just slightly annoyed. "What!" he defends. "He wouldn't answer me. It was a simple question. Where's the gum!"   
"Yeah, but you didn't have to fucking pull a gun on him! You could've shot him!"  
"Oh, calm down. It was empty!"   
"Where'd you even get a gun from?!"  
"I left one at the bar a while ago. Decided to get it tonight."   
"You're fucking unbelievable."   
"steve."  
"What!" I look at him. I don't want to, I'm too mad to, but I do. And i see his face, shining with sweat, smirking just slightly as his eyes fight to stay open. 

"I'm tired." 

I sigh. He's too drunk. I'm too done. I want to go home. So i do. And i bring him with me.


End file.
